Merry nodded and pulled off the heavy tapestry cover that Mama had made for the upright. It was one of only three pianos in the Falls, and she was fanatical about keeping dust from it. Reuben Downing, pockets heavy with the gold pebbles his father had been murdered over, bought it as a wedding gift for my parents. It had been shipped in pieces across the mountain pass and reassembled in the sitting room. Whenever Mama had a spare moment, she’d sit on the little tufted stool and run her fingers up and down the polished ivory keys, singing old church hymns or folk songs in her rich alto. Though she’d taught all three of her daughters how to play, none of us were as gifted as her.
“A dance,” Whitaker decided. “I think if I could have any Christmas wish, I’d want a dance.”
“I’ll dance with you!” Sadie exclaimed, easily grabbing his hand and pulling him into the center of the room. “Merry can play something. She’s the best of all of us.”
“I’d be honored,” Whitaker said, sweeping into a bow as Merry began to pick out a careful string of notes, testing the keys.
The piano was a bit out of tune—no one had touched it since the fire—but it was still serviceable, and the carol Merry started filled the house with a warm cheer the holiday had been lacking, despite our best efforts. Even Sam’s disinterest seemed to melt away and he grabbed my hand, happily drawing me into a spin.
Sadie shrieked with laughter as she tried mimicking Whitaker’s footsteps. He stomped his feet and clapped his hands in a complex pattern she was hopeless to follow, missing half the steps through her giggles.
When the song ended, I took over for Merry so she could have a turn dancing. We sang and stomped till the grandfather clock chimed midnight and Sadie huddled in an exhausted heap at the end of the settee.
“What a perfect evening,” Whitaker said over the final stroke of the clock. “But I’ve trespassed too long on your hospitality. It’s time I made my way back to camp.”
“All alone? In the dark?” Samuel asked. He’d just picked up Sadie, and her long limbs spilled over his arms.
“I have a lantern and I know the way well.”
“Even still…there are things in those pines. Dangerous things. You’d be welcome to stay overnight.”
“I could make up the couch down here.” As I pictured Whitaker sleeping beneath our roof, just rooms away from me, I flushed. “We’ve plenty of quilts and…” I trailed off as the memory of him bathing in the river consumed my thoughts. The thought of one of my quilts covering his naked, slumbering form killed any hope of me finishing that sentence.
If he sensed my thoughts, he did not show it. “I couldn’t impose. Truly, I’ll be just fine.”
I wasn’t sure if I was more relieved or disappointed by his insistence.
Whitaker called out a soft goodnight as Samuel carried Sadie’s prostrate form up the stairs.
“I ought to help him,” Merry said, shooting me a surreptitious wink. “You know she’s a bear to change once she’s drifted off. Good night, Whitaker. Thank you again for the horseshoe.”
“You should hang it above the door you pass through most,” he suggested. “That’s what they say, anyway.”
“I’ll make sure to do that.” She nodded. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Merry,” he echoed. “That was neatly executed,” he said once her footsteps had reached the loft. “Did you orchestrate that?”
“What? No! I—”
He laughed. “I know. I did,” he admitted in a stage whisper. “I mentioned to Merry what a shame it was you were at the piano all night long.”
“I didn’t mind.”
“Well, I did,” he confided. “I hoped I’d get the chance to dance with you.”
Pleasure flooded through me, warming my chest. “You did?”
“It was my greatest Christmas wish.” He reached out but did not touch me. Instead his hand hung in midair as if waiting for permission. “Could I tempt you into one now?”
I stared at his fingers, admiring the way the candlelight highlighted their long lines. They were beguiling and hypnotic in their beauty. “There’s no one to play for us.”
“We don’t need a piano.” His hand sprang into action then, wrapping around mine and drawing me onto the porch.
The night air was frigid, but I didn’t notice. I couldn’t feel anything beyond the warmth of his fingers, the brush of his arm at my side.
“Do you hear the music?”
I stared into the night, listening. Everything was still as a new snow fell, dampening and muffling the world. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Try harder,” he insisted. “Close your eyes and really listen. Do you hear that gentle push of the wind?”
Eyes shut, I nodded.
“The orchestra is warming up.”
“A whole orchestra?” I asked, a smile tugging on my lips as his free hand settled at my waist, gently pulling me close against him. This wouldn’t be a rowdy country reel.
“And hear the snowflakes as they fall, landing on branches and limbs? There’s our downbeat.”
His lips were close to my temple, skirting my skin as he whispered, and eliciting a thrill of anticipation.
Whitaker hummed a soft tune, one I was not familiar with, and he began to sway back and forth, pulling me along with the slow shuffle of his feet. When I opened my eyes, his were on mine, as dark as resin.
He slowly turned me into a spin, and I let my hand linger on his arm with far more confidence than I actually felt.
“What a magical night.” The snow clouds striated across the sky, and twinkling stars peeked between their lines. “Look, you can even see Cassiopeia.”
Whitaker’s face shifted into a disbelieving grin. “Who?”
“The constellation.” I pulled him down the steps and out into the yard, and pointed at the zigzag of light. “See that cluster of five stars there?”
“Of course.”
“That’s Cassiopeia, named after a terribly vain queen. To punish her impertinence, the gods made her constellation hang upside down for half the year.”
His laughter was light and easy.
“No, see how the W is faced?” I traced the pattern into the air above us.
“I see it just fine, Ellerie Downing. It’s only…”
“What?”
His dimples winked. “Even the stars have to have names?”
I raised my shoulders, shrugging. “It’s not as though I christened them myself.”
His eyes fell upon me, surprisingly serious, given the grin on his face. “But you know their names? Their stories? All of them?”
“Don’t you? Papa used to tell us their stories as we fell asleep when we were little. And there was a book in our schoolroom—I loved reading that.”
He shrugged. “It just seems silly to me, I guess, naming something so very far away. Those stars don’t know our myths. Why would they want to be named after heroes and legends they’ve never heard of?”
“I think they’d be happy to know they’re so often thought of,” I reasoned. “Their names give them importance. Otherwise they’re just a scattering of light up in that big, vast void.”
He tipped his face up, admiring the night. “It is awfully big and vast.” He pointed to a cluster of stars. “What about those ones? They look as though they’re important. They must have a story. And I know you’ll know it.”
“The Harp,” I said without hesitation.
He laughed. “Why would there be a harp in the sky?”
“It’s Orpheus’s.” He looked at me blankly. “He was a musician. When the love of his life died, he followed after her into the underworld. Using his music, he persuaded Hades to return her soul to earth, so they could be together forever. Hades relented, saying she would follow the musician out, but Orpheus was not to turn around to mark her progre
ss. He made it through trials and torments, but just before he reached the mouth of the river separating the underworld from the realm of men, he faltered and looked back.”
“What happened to the girl?”
“She was dragged back into hell.”
Whitaker looked horrified. “And he gets his harp immortalized forever? All because he failed?”
I glanced up to the little diamond-shaped constellation. “I never thought about it like that. It is rather terrible, isn’t it?”
Our shoulders brushed as we leaned against each other with a cozy familiarity.
“Would you follow me to the underworld?” he asked. His voice was deep and low, tinged with suggestion.
A smile blossomed across my lips. “If I did, you know I wouldn’t look back.”
The wind shifted, sending a scattering of snow over us. The flakes danced across my cheeks and caught in my lashes like tiny cold kisses. When Whitaker brushed them aside, I nudged my cheek against his fingers, wanting to feel more of their warmth, wanting to feel more of him.
“You never told me your Christmas wish, Ellerie Downing,” he murmured, drawing the pad of his thumb down the curve of my jaw.
I could not answer. My breath was caught in my throat, every fiber of my being waiting for his lips to descend upon mine. I wasn’t sure what to do, how to initiate it, where my hands should be. I wanted to pull him down to me then and there but worried he’d think me too brazen, too bold.
But oh, I wanted him.
Before I could throw my caution aside, a gust of wind picked up, blowing past us with a spray of snowflakes. The cold broke us, and the moment, apart as we raced for the cover of the porch, laughing.
“Too cold for dancing, I suppose,” Whitaker said ruefully.
“It was a lovely thought,” I allowed, aching to rekindle the intensity we’d just shared. He’d wanted to kiss me, I was certain of it. “Come back inside? I can make you a cup of tea—warm you up before you go?”
“A tempting offer.”
Disappointment crashed through me as he went inside to retrieve his heavy coat. As he stood at the threshold, tucking the ends of his scarf deep into the collar of his sweater, he glanced up and spotted a sprig of mistletoe. Sadie had hung it earlier while decorating, though I was certain Samuel had taken it down before Whitaker arrived.
But there it dangled now, poised like a promise.
“Very tempting.”
“Is it?” I asked, stepping forward, twisting my fingers in knots. It wasn’t the cold of the night that sent shivers down my spine.
“Ellerie, I…” Whitaker leaned in, nudging my forehead with his, brushing knuckles across my cheek, his touch softer than the snowfall. I tilted my chin, encouraging him to close the little space remaining between us. Our breath fogged gently about us, mingling together like the kiss about to come.
But a flurry of movement drew our attention.
Sam was back, dousing candles.
Instantly Whitaker stepped away from the mistletoe and grabbed his lantern before fleeing into the yard. Another gust of wind blew by, making the distance between us feel like miles. He turned back, a rueful smile playing at his lips.
I leaned against the nearest porch rail, bewildered by his sudden departure. I’d never yearned so badly for something in all my life, and he’d walked away from it today with utter ease. Three times. My stomach churned, embarrassment and vulnerability mingling together into an unpleasant combination.
“Safe travels,” I offered, knowing that goodbye must be somehow said. Empty platitudes seemed the easiest way to go.
“I…There’s something I need to tell you.”
“There is?” I hated the rising hope ringing in my words.
Whitaker rolled his tongue over the front of his teeth. “There’s not an easy way to say this, but…Sam’s supply run…I’ll admit, it’s gotten under my skin. I’m always looking over my shoulder, letting our campfires grow brighter and higher than ever.”
“I’m glad you’re being cautious.”
He twisted his fingers together. “It’s just…have you ever wondered what really happened that night?”
“What do you mean? Sam said—”
“Sam said how terrible the attack was. All its horrifying aftermath. And…I saw the remains; it was awful. So…how did he escape?”
“Well, he said….” I stilled, thinking over Sam’s account.
Whitaker raised his pointer finger. “He said the animals were fast. He didn’t have a horse. They scattered when the things struck.” A second finger popped up. “He said the animals were ferocious. He didn’t have a weapon.” His eyebrows furrowed together unhappily. “How is he still alive?”
Silence fell between us as I struggled to form an answer. I’d envisioned my brother running through the woods, hiding behind fallen trees, sheltering in a hollowed log. But that was my imagination. What had truly happened? “Maybe he…He could have…” I shrugged helplessly. “Dumb luck?”
If anyone were to believe in the power of luck, it was Whitaker.
He nodded reluctantly. “Maybe.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
Whitaker cast out a deep sigh. “Ellerie—there was no sign of creatures attacking that camp. When I came across it, I found…a lot of dried blood and some bones and…other things…but it didn’t look as though animals had attacked those men.”
“What did it look like?” I whispered. I rubbed my arms, uncertain if my chill was from the wind or his words.
“Like the men had been killed…murdered,” he whispered.
I drew a quick breath, horrified. “You can’t possibly mean Sam—”
“I didn’t say that!” he clarified, his hands raised in defense. “I’m not suggesting that, at all….I don’t think. Only that it was a man who did it. Men, maybe. I don’t know.”
“That sounds crazy.”
“Crazier than an entire pack of those mutated wolves?”
“No one in Amity Falls would kill those men.”
“Maybe the men didn’t come from the Falls.”
We startled at a sharp tap on the window. Samuel waved once. “Good night, Whitaker. Merry Christmas again.”
He nodded, and we watched him go in silence.
“But Sam saw the wolves…,” I persisted, watching my twin retreat deeper into the house.
Whitaker cleared his throat, making a soft sound of concession. “A traumatized mind can see an awful lot of things, but I’m telling you, Ellerie Downing, there are no monsters in those pines.”
“What should I tell Sam?”
“Nothing. Do…do you feel safe with him? Do you think he’d ever hurt you—or your sisters?”
“Of course not!” I exclaimed, horrified.
“Of course not,” he echoed with less certainty. “Just…be vigilant. Be safe.”
Whitaker glanced back to the empty window before stepping in and pressing a fervent kiss to my forehead. I wanted to savor its tender warmth, but in truth I barely felt it.
“I’ll check in on you all in a few days,” he promised, before disappearing into a swirl of snow.
Samuel’s fork dragged across the plate, picking up every last crumb of the oatcakes I’d made for breakfast. Without sugar, syrup, or cinnamon, they were nearly inedible, but Sam didn’t seem to notice or care. He licked the corner of his mouth, savoring every bit of the tasteless cake, finishing his before I’d even served the others.
Sadie made a face as I dropped a cake onto her plate. “Again?”
“Again,” I confirmed.
“Is there any…” She trailed off, unable to think of a single thing that would salvage breakfast.
“I’ll eat it if you won’t,” Sam said, claiming the cake by reaching across the table to stab his fork into it the second we’d fini
shed saying our morning prayer.
“Sam!” I cried as Sadie let out a painfully loud screech.
“What? She said she didn’t want it.” He’d popped nearly half the oatcake into his mouth and was chewing around his words.
“No, I didn’t!” Sadie wailed.
“Have it, then,” he said, foisting the remains back onto her plate.
She pushed it back at him. “I don’t want it now!”
“Take mine,” I said, shoving my plate over to stop the shrieking.
I’d woken up with a dull pressure pounding across my forehead, and their squabbling sharpened it into a truly horrific migraine. I pressed the pads of my fingers into my forehead, but nothing helped.
“There’s that last bit of ginger root in the pantry,” Merry said, noticing my discomfort. “I’ll make you some tea.”
Sadie perked up. “I want tea!”
“Then come help. You can shave the ginger. I’ll get the water.”
Sadie pointed a warning finger at Sam. “Don’t eat Ellerie’s. That’s mine!”
They left for the kitchen, and the room fell into blissful silence. Sam poked at the last of Sadie’s oatcake, taking his time finishing it off.
“Bad night?” he asked.
Whitaker’s parting words had circled round and round, clouding my mind with shades of doubt and dread, and spinning outlandish and horrific possibilities. I hadn’t fallen asleep until the early hours of the morning, and even then, my dreams had been distorted with nightmares.
Tall pines leering over a campsite destroyed.
Cries of terror.
A pair of bright dots I’d thought were the creature’s silver eyes.
But when I’d focused on them, I’d realized it was moonlight reflecting off the blood spattering my brother’s face.
And the knife in his hand.
Whitaker was mistaken; he had to be. There was no other explanation. What he’d guessed—that the men had not been killed but murdered—made no sense. It couldn’t be true. No man was capable of—
My temples tightened.
I didn’t know what had happened on that supply run. No one did, except Sam. His account was the only one we’d heard. The only one that could be accepted. Everyone had been too afraid of the wolves to investigate further.
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